


A Growing Trust

by bluehawthorn



Series: Lessons in Kingship [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An Unexpected Journey, Angst, Bath Sex, Caring Thranduil, Consensual Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, King of the Woodland Realm, M/M, Mirkwood, Prince of Erebor, Slash, Smaug has come, Smut, Thorin POV, Thorinduil - Freeform, Thrandorin, Top!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehawthorn/pseuds/bluehawthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His homeland taken, Thorin brings his people to Mirkwood for help and his bond with Thranduil continues to deepen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Growing Trust

**Author's Note:**

> My love for Thorinduil is simply too great - I had to keep going with this rewrite of their story. There will likely be more to come.

A dragon has taken his home and Thorin has pulled his grandfather from the gates of Erebor and watched his people fleeing from their kingdom. His mind is reeling, trying to find a part of himself that knows what to do, that can stop this from destroying everything he loves, everything he is responsible for. 

But he can think of nothing. He can only smell the acrid stench of his own burnt hair, feel the despair that wants to settle in his bones and weigh him to the earth.

And then there, on the ridge, is the elvenking on his giant steed. Hope flutters in Thorin, like wings in his throat. They have a history, a sworn alliance; surely Thranduil will come to his people’s aid. Perhaps they can turn away the dragon with their combined forces, perhaps they can even kill it together. 

He raises his hand, yells, “Help us!" into the hot, arid wind which all around is alight with floating embers as the life he has always known burns away.

But instead Thranduil is turning away with an implacable look on this face, and his soldiers with him. Thorin cannot comprehend for a moment and then he is filled with rage. 

He sees someone leading a pony away from the gates and runs to them, grabbing the reins and clambering onto its back. He hears them protest behind him, but does not care. He is pushing the pony up the path to the top of the slope, along the ranks of elves, to the antlered figure at the front.

“Thranduil! How dare you turn away from us in our time of greatest need?” he shouts as he pulls alongside the huge elk on which the elf king sits astride.

Thranduil turns to him slowly, and Thorin is surprised to see that up close his face is strained and sad. “Thorin. I am very sorry for what you have lost this day. But I have faced dragons before. We will only be slaughtered if we try to face the beast now. You must bide your time and get your people to safety. There will be no victory here today.”

“That is easy for you to say – it is not your homeland that has been stolen. What of our alliance?” Thorin’s chest is heaving with desperation.

Thranduil only smiles sadly and urges his elk closer, dropping his voice. “I have not forgotten. You trusted me once, Thorin. I am asking you to do that again. This is not the time to fight. This is the time to care for your people. Bring them to The Woodland Realm and we will feed them and tend to the wounded before you join your kin in the Iron Hills or Blue Mountains or wherever you choose to go."

And at that Thranduil turns away and his small army marches behind him.

Thorin stands there for a long time before returning to his people below. He knows that Thranduil is right, but feels a growing anger festering in him anyways, inhabiting a space that otherwise defeat might rush in to occupy. And he cannot allow himself to feel defeat. He knows that much of what lies ahead will fall to him. He must guide his people to an uncertain fate.

*************************

When they arrive in Mirkwood several days later, hungry and tired and ragged, Thranduil is true to his word. They are met at the gate and his people are led away to food and shelter and healing. His father and grandfather are given the best guest quarters and allowed to rest before they are to have an audience with the king the next day. He on the other hand, is taken directly to Thranduil. 

Several elf guards escort him to a cavernous room dominated by a huge antlered throne. Thranduil is there, already walking toward them. “Thorin,” he says,“You came.”

He keeps his voice as neutral as he can, unsure how to reconcile the many different feelings that seeing the elvenking is inspiring in him. “Thank you for your hospitality. My people are indebted to you.” 

“Of course. I will do all that I can. You must be exhausted after the trials and tragedy of the last few days. Come to my chambers and I will have a bath drawn for you and food brought."

Thorin thinks that he should go, walk among his people, offer reassurances and assistance, but he is tired to his soul and he lets Thranduil lead him away with a hand on his arm.

******************

Thranduil’s chambers are down a long hallway beyond an ornately carved wooden door. The elvenking murmurs something in Sindarin to the guards outside and all but one of them leave. Inside, the rooms are lit by lanterns and appear luxurious while also stately.

“A bath is being filled for you and new garments being brought. Will you allow me to help you undress?” Thranduil says in a low soothing voice.

Given their history Thorin knows he should probably refuse, keep an appropriate distance, but in this moment he wants nothing more than the simple reassurance of the elvenking's attention. He nods.

As Thranduil slowly begins to remove his soiled garments, Thorin can feel the grief he has been keeping at bay threaten to overtake him. As though sensing this, Thranduil wraps a long arm around his chest and pulls him back in a kind of embrace. "I truly am sorry Thorin," he murmurs against Thorin’s ear.

Thorin nods slowly, swallowing the tightness in his throat, and Thranduil continues undressing him. When he is down to just his trousers, Thranduil notices where dragonfire brushed his neck as he pulled Balin to safety on the ramparts of Erebor.

“You are burned. Let me tend to it.” Thranduil leads him to the bed where he sits on the edge, his shoulders slumped. His mind is numb and blank.

Thranduil leaves him for a moment and returns with a small jar in his hand. He sits behind him on the bed and smoothes a cool ointment over the burn. It smells strongly of herbs. He then gently takes up Thorin's hair and with a sharp blade, cuts away the parts that are singed.

His hands linger in his hair for a few moments and suddenly Thorin feels angry. The injustice of it all burns like acid in his gut. “We should have stayed and fought. You should have stayed to help us. Now we will be exiled and that serpent will brood over the wealth of our people forever," he spits.

And then as suddenly as it comes it leaves him in a rush. He knows the futility of misplaced anger all too well. Dwarves are a people quick to rage and slow to let it go even when foolish or unjust. He has no such luxury now when his people are bereft. 

"I am sorry. I know you could not help us then without risking your own people's lives. And you are helping us now."

“It is fine Thorin. I understand. I am glad you trusted me enough to come here.” 

Thorin realizes that he does trust the elvenking. He trusts that he is a wise ruler, that the lessons he has to teach him about kingship are important ones that could come from no more reliable source. He trusts that Thranduil wants to help him, cares for him even in his own way. There is no one else he could have taken his people to, no one else he could allow to see his exhaustion and hopelessness and fear.

Thranduil moves off the bed and comes around to look down at him. “But perhaps I was wrong in bringing you here. Do you want to be shown to your own chambers so that you can be alone to process all this loss?”

Thorin considers, shaking his head and lowering his gaze to the floor. "No. Please. I would like to remain here if you will allow it.”

“Of course." Thranduil considers him for a moment and then as though deciding something says, "A bath should be ready for you now.”

Thorin nods and Thranduil leads him into a low-lit chamber where a large pool is filled with water.

Thranduil asks, “Shall I leave you?”

After a moment’s pause, his voice low and tired, Thorin hears himself say, "I would rather not be alone with my thoughts. Stay. Join me even." 

What reason could there be for modesty when the elvenking has already seen him both emotionally and physically bare?

Thranduil nods and begins to disrobe. Despite his exhaustion and grief, Thorin feels a stirring of memory as the elvenking's long lithe form is revealed.

Thorin steps down into the water, the warmth of it a balm for his stiff, aching muscles. Thranduil follows closely behind, and they sit against opposite sides of the pool for some time.

Eventually, Thranduil asks quietly, “Where will you go?”

“I do not know. Perhaps the Blue Mountains. The Iron Hills are closer, but more...politically complicated.” 

“The king has not yet decided then?”

“My grandfather...he remains as he was the last time we met, in the sickly thrall of gold. Now that he has lost his treasure horde, perhaps that will change but for now he is unreachable. My father is maddened by the loss of our home. He already speaks of wanting to retake Moria, but I have told him that we must rest first, gather our strength.” 

He sighs. His whole body shudders with it as though trying to shrug off a heavy weight which clings to him. “I am afraid that much of what comes next will fall to me, and I am unprepared to lead. I fear for the future of our people.”

Thranduil moves toward him in the water, looks into his face. "I have ruled for countless years Thorin. You must trust my judgement. Your people are in good hands if they are in your care. But I also know the burden of having responsibility for a broken kingdom thrust upon you when you are still young and untested."

Thorin knows only traces of Thranduil's history, but he hears the pain that surfaces in his voice and feels relief to be in the company of one of the few beings in Middle Earth who might understand what he is facing.

He reaches out for Thranduil and the elf king closes the distance between them. He cups his hand along Thorin's jaw, the gesture tender where the last time they were together it was calculating.

“I have not forgotten what it was like to lie with you." He says. "I have not forgotten your courage on my behalf or what you risked in recovering the gems, nor your passion. You left a larger mark on me that night than I had expected, deeper than anyone has made in a very long time. I want to help you in the ways that I can. Let me be a comfort to you this night.”

Thorin nods again and Thranduil leans down to kiss him softly.

“Let me help you wash and then we will sup. You must be hungry.” With that Thranduil takes up soap from the side of the pool and brings Thorin to standing so that the water reaches the height of his chest.

Thranduil lathers his hands and begins to massage the soap into Thorin's hair and along his scalp and neck and shoulders. His strong hands and long fingers are rubbing tension from Thorin and he feels his body melting toward the elf, grateful for this small relief.

Thranduil continues down his back, around to his chest and stomach, kneading as he goes. Thorin's cock begins to harden against his belly. Thranduil notices and looks at Thorin for permission.

Thorin inclines his head, and Thranduil reaches for him below the water, his hands slippery with soap. One after the other they twist up the shaft and curl over the head with a firm pressure that has his breath leaving him in a hiss. No one has touched him like this since the last time he was with the elvenking and it fills him with yearning.

He leans into the slide of Thranduil’s hands and the elf lets him, until he is lost in the delicious friction of it and the tension in his thighs is building, and then Thranduil pulls back, saying, “Shhhh. Soon Thorin. For now, we must see you fed.” 

Thranduil gently washes the rest of his body and then takes his hand and guides him from the bath. Thranduil dries him with a soft cloth before doing the same to himself and takes Thorin back to his bedchamber.

*******************

There are fresh clothes for them both folded on the bed. Thorin changes into the loose dwarf-sized tunic and trousers that have been left for him, in shades of cream and brown. Thranduil pulls on a tight-fitting soft grey leather tunic and leggings. Both of their feet are bare. 

Thorin has never seen the elf king dressed in anything but ornate ceremonial garb. The effect pulls strangely at him in its intimacy. 

A small table is set nearby with food – fresh bread, preserved fruit, soft cheese, a bowl of greens and one of nuts. There is a bottle of wine, a pitcher of water, and two cups. 

They sit down across from each other and Thranduil pours the water first, watches Thorin drink it back in one draught and then pours him another glass. He serves food onto Thorin’s plate and Thorin takes to it like a starving man, having eaten almost nothing in days. 

Thranduil pours him wine, gives him more food. When the ache in Thorin’s belly starts to fade he slows down, eating the food more mindfully. He looks up at Thranduil and wonders that he should be in the elvenking’s care once again, but under such different circumstances.

The last time Thranduil was indebted to him after Thorin stole the Gems of Lasgalen and returned them to the Kingdom of Mirkwood. Had he been discovered he may have lost his own claim to the throne of a kingdom that is now lost to them all. 

And Thranduil had repayed that debt by initiating him into the ways of the flesh. He remembers for a moment, his mind playing along the edges of that fevered night when, under Thranduil's instruction he had discovered what pleasures his body was capable of. Thranduil is watching him intently, as though remembering himself.

Thorin finishes the food and wine, sitting back in his chair. “Better?” Thranduil asks.

“Yes, much.” he replies.

“Come then. Let us rest.” Thranduil stands and takes his hand.

****************

Thorin is lying on the thick embroidered linens of the elvenking’s bed, propped on pillows. Thranduil reposes next to him, his hand resting in something akin to fondness on Thorin’s chest. It is quiet and still, later into the night now, and the only sound is of the two of them breathing.

Thorin is so grateful for this moment of peace he feels almost like weeping. Weariness still drags heavily on him, but he is also growing increasingly aware of the length of Thranduil stretched out beside him. Eventually he turns on his side and the two of them look at one another for a moment before Thandruil kisses him again. 

Thorin opens his mouth and allows Thranduil to deepen the kiss. The elvenking tastes like moss and summer rain. Thorin feels long arms wrap around his waist, bringing him flush against the lean body of the king. Their legs tangle and he can feel that both of their hardnesses are growing between them. 

Thranduil’s hand is at his jaw again, trailing down to his chest. His mouth is following, his tongue and lips working gently against Thorin's skin.

It feels so different from their last night together, which was fire where this is more like water. They are rocking against one another, Thranduil’s hands in his hair, and there is tenderness and sorrow in every sound that comes from them both.

The press of body to body, of mouth and hands, feels painfully good. He is so raw that it hurts to feel anything at all, but this hurts more like the healing of a wound than the giving of one. Something is deeply broken in him he knows, but he can feel the pieces mending somewhat under Thranduil’s touch. Hopefully just enough that he can face what is to come. 

Thranduil is speaking low flowing phrases against his skin like a prayer in his native tongue. Then suddenly he switches to Westron."You must be strong now Thorin. You must believe in your own strength and I want to help you feel it this night. I want you to take me, to enter my body with your own. Will you do this?"

Thorin looks into the strange blue eyes of the elvenking and when he can see only sincerity and desire there he nods, yes.

Thranduil pulls Thorin on top of him, and then his body is moving over the elf's of its own volition. Their hips are rolling against the others in a slow rhythm, like the movement of waves. And Thranduil is surrendering to him, his body yielding beneath Thorin’s weight. 

His arousal crests and he is undressing Thranduil, pulling clothing from his body. There is a sudden desperation rising in him again, a need for release. Thranduil rucks up his tunic and pulls it from him and their skin presses together and it is warm and lovely and he can feel it soothe some lonely aching part of him. 

He kicks off his trousers and presses himself against the elvenking, rutting against his thigh. Thranduil groans, his lips parting, and presses back.

He looks at Thranduil bare beneath him and he remembers the pain he felt when Thranduil first entered him. He recognizes that he is thicker in girth than the elf and does not wish to cause any more suffering than has already transpired these last days.

And so he asks. "Will I cause you pain?"

Thranduil's mouth curls up in a small, knowing smile. "You needn't worry, Thorin. I trust you. And I am no stranger to pain and how closely it is sistered to pleasure, just as love and loss are also twinned and joy with sorrow." 

"Besides," and he reaches over to the table next to the bed and picks up a small vial, "the last time we were together we did not have this. It will make things much easier."

"What is it?"

"Oil. Pour some on your fingers and use them to prepare me."

Thandruil turns on his belly, mimicking the position Thorin took beneath him in the bed of Erebor's guest chambers. 

The expanse of his back is smooth and long and pale. Thorin traces it with his hands and then his mouth, tasting and caressing the indents above his buttocks, the dip of his lower back, up each lean length of muscle on either side of spine, over the ridges of the spine itself, against the elegance of shoulder blades and the graceful slope of shoulders. 

Thranduil is arching under him, his head tilted back, his white-gold hair perfectly dry now and spilling over one shoulder. Thorin wraps one of his hands around the front of Thranduil’s throat, strokes down over tendons and the long column of his windpipe, then leans down and scrapes his teeth over the nape of the elvenking's neck, another echo of their last time together.

Feeling unsure of himself beyond this, Thorin applies the oil as Thranduil has asked and slides one of his thick strong fingers into the elf king. Thranduil seems to welcome it, bucking up into Thorin's hand. Thorin is able to add another, stretching Thranduil to receive him and soon there is a subtle give, a softening around his fingers.

"It is enough," says Thranduil. "I am ready."

And from here, the rest seems inevitable. He does not even have to think; his body knows what to do. 

Thorin drips oil over his cock, positions it against Thranduil who lifts his hips to allow easier entry. He is kneeling between the elvenking's thighs and leans against the rise of his buttocks, slowly easing himself forward. 

Breaching the entrance to Thranduil’s body is much easier than he expects. The king is pliant under his hands, his body engulfing him slowly, inch by molten inch. The intensity of sinking into pressure and heat, this slide into the tightness of Thranduil’s flesh, is beyond anything he has ever felt. His mind loses thought, spreads into a wide, shimmering haze of sensation. 

Thranduil cries out. His head falls forward and he is moaning into the pillows.

Thorin can think only enough to ask, "Are you alright?" his voice strained with the effort to speak while in the pulsing thrall of this feeling. 

The elvenking replies, "Yes Thorin. Fuck me. Do not hold back."

The oil has slicked his passage, and Thorin glides without resistance into Thranduil, pushing the elf down into the bed with the force of it. “Like that?” he asks. 

"Yes,” says Thranduil. “Yes. Harder.” 

He does it again and again and Thranduil rises to meet him each time. His thrusts are coming faster now. Guttural sounds are pouring from his mouth, which is open, his breath coming in arcing, rhythmic gasps, pushed from his lungs with each plunge forward into the elvenking’s body. 

The pain of the last few days is still there, but is distant somehow, secondary to the delirious sensation of his cock buried inside this beautiful, ancient creature under him. It is as though all his troubles are in the depths but he is adrift on the surface, clinging onto Thranduil like the elf’s body is all that is keeping him afloat. 

Eventually Thorin grabs Thranduil's hips and pulls him up to sitting so that they are both kneeling on the bed, Thranduil straddling his thighs. The elf towers tall above him, his hair cascading between them. 

Thorin is still inside the elf king, and he curls his arm around Thranduil’s stomach, pulling him down so that the elvenking’s back is against his belly and chest. As Thorin pulls back, Thranduil raises himself slightly and then impales himself down onto Thorin’s length as Thorin moves forward to meet him.

They sway together like this for some time, the impact of flesh into flesh shuddering through them both. The pleasure of Thranduil riding him is such a transcendent and overwhelming experience that everything else seems muted and far away, like sound when one is submerged underwater.

Thorin reaches to encircle the elf’s swollen cock in his wide palm and strokes it in tandem with each tilt of his pelvis. At this Thranduil picks up speed in his movements, is trembling around him and crying out in elvish.

Thorin splays his free hand over Thranduil's chest and uses it to pull him more deeply onto each thrust. He mutters "Come for me," against the elf’s skin, his voice low and rough in his own ears. 

And Thranduil does, tightening around him. He is groaning, his muscles clenched, seed pouring from him over Thorin's hand.

Driving his cock into Thranduil a last few times, the beginning of Thorin's orgasm pulls at him like an undertow and then there is a swelling surge of pleasure, washing through him with spine-crushing force. He is moaning and biting at Thranduil's shoulder blade as he is flooded with the spasms of release. He is spilling inside the elvenking in an ecstasy that is like dying or birth or battle or some other terrible, magnificent thing. 

When it is done and they have collapsed forward onto the bed, Thorin begins suddenly to weep, his body wracked with sobs that come without warning. He is too wrung to even feel ashamed, and Thranduil takes him up into his arms, resting his chin against Thorin's head and muttering soothing sounds into his hair.

Thranduil holds him until the crying takes its course, and then Thorin turns on his side and allows Thranduil to curve his body around him. At this, Thorin feels a trickling of gratitude through him, clear and sweet, and it lessens the barren horror of the last few days just enough that he can drift into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the sheltering arms of the elvenking.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments very welcomed.


End file.
